Aching Hips and Arched Eyebrows
by kittensincellos
Summary: John Watson is anything but cheery about his recent move to the Baker Street Senior Living Home, but upon meeting his room mate Sherlock Holmes, John realizes retirement may be a bit more dangerous than he thought...


It was the first clear, blue day in more than a month. The movement from the shade into the sun sent gooseflesh across the skin. The birds were chirping; children were playing; people were getting out their spades to begin gardens for the spring. All the generic events one would expect to occur on a day as nice as this were very much occurring.

It was doing nothing to improve John Watson's mood.

Why should whatever divine powers exist decide that today should be a lovely day?

Didn't the universe realize that a man was losing his freedom? His independence? His dignity?

It was true his memory wasn't what it used to be-it had worsened significantly since Mary's passing two winters ago-but John hardly felt that a move to a facility was necessary. He was perfectly content in his flat in London, thank you very much. But, like her mother, once Amelia's mind was made up, that was that.

He could sympathize with her worry of receiving a phone call in the middle of the night that her father had wandered off somewhere or, God forbid, been hurt. It was because of John's sympathy that he sat in the backseat of his daughter's car, wedged between two teenagers, and watched the busy London streets morph into long rolling fields.

He worried the pamphlet for Baker Street Senior Living Home in his hands and tried, unsuccessfully, to avoid the elbows of his granddaughter as she thrashed about to the beat of whatever song was playing through her headphones.

"Sarah, settle down please. You're going to give your granddad a black eye." Amelia chided as she used some rather colorful language to describe the driver of the car in front of her. John had taught her well.

"What?" Sarah yelled as she plucked one earbud from her ear.

"She said stop doing your best to imitate Gladstone when the sprinkler's on." said the teenage boy on the other side of John.

"I resent being compared to that ugly mutt you call a dog." she fired back.

"Ha! _He's_ ugly? Looks like someone's already forgotten what that bloke on the football team said. What was it? 'A face like a baboon'?"

Sarah let out a cry of outrage.

"Mum! Do you hear what David's saying to me? Are you going to stand for this?" she whined.

John put his elbows on his knees and massaged his temples. He watched his daughter make a hum of acknowledgement and fiddle with a map. He wondered if he should tell her it's upside down.

David tossed a piece of caramel-covered popcorn across the seat to peg Sarah directly in the forehead. She picked it up and tossed it back at her twin. David narrowly avoided it; the snack bounced off of the car window. After about five or six tosses back and forth, one piece managed to go down the collar of John's shirt.

"Oi! That's enough of that." he barked as he scrambled to fish out the popcorn that was wiggling its way down his back.

"Don't forget, he was a soldier! He's killed people." Amelia called into the backseat.

"But Mum, he was a _doctor_." Sarah said in a mock-incredulous voice.

"He had bad days!" David chimed in.

They all dissolved into fits of giggles at the success of their much-rehearsed scene. John didn't say it _that_ often, did he?

John moved his hands directly to the bellies of the teens seated beside him with the swift expertise of a professional tickler. His grandkids squealed and clung to the sides of the car in an attempt to move out of his reach. He finally ceased when they begged for mercy.

"Gosh you kids give up easy." Amelia said with a chuckle.

"You're just lucky I can't reach you from back here."

Amelia yelped as she wiggled in her seat to avoid her father's hand, trying to tickle her side.

Eventually the laughter subsided, and John let out a sigh, beginning to rub his bad leg. David, sensing how morose his granddad was, posed the question:

"So how often are we going to come visit?"

Amelia seemed a bit flustered by the question, and floundered for an answer.

"Er—as often as we can."

John could tell from her response that visits were going to be few and far between. Her career as a detective was demanding, and John understood she wouldn't get many afternoons to spend out in the country with her old dad.

Sarah seemed to reach the same conclusion, as tears welled up in her eyes.

"You can still keep in touch on the phone, love." he said as he wrapped an arm around her.

They sat in the silence for a while. Sarah rested her head on John's shoulder, and David nodded of against the window. John felt himself starting to doze off too, but was awoken by the crunching of gravel against the tires.

"We're here! Everybody out. David, help your granddad with his bags."

The four of them piled out and stretched their legs. That car ride had done nothing for John's shoulder. He glared at the passenger seat of the car. It was in a sorry state thanks to Gladstone's tearing-up of the upholstery. It was thus, rendered out of commission for the car ride.

John looked around and took in his new home. There was no denying it was gorgeous. The name was damn strange, but Baker Street was best described as idyllic. Benches were plentiful and apple trees dotted the grounds. There were no tall, imposing fences, or gray bricked buildings. The building itself was a light tan color, and looked to be a converted manor of some sort. He could see the corner of a green house behind it, and noticed a pool in the far corner. It was covered, but if a day like today was any indication, it wouldn't be for much longer.

There were a dozen or so residents puttering about outside. He heard some swing music floating through an open window on the top floor. At 75, John was no spring chicken, but he was surprised to see residents as young as he was. He expected decrepit and empty husks of people to occupy Baker Street.

John heard the grunt of David lifting his trunk out of the car's boot. The car's suspension squeaked as a great weight was lifted.

"What's _in_ here?" said the grandson through gritted teeth.

"Give it here." Sarah said with an eye roll as she effortlessly plucked the bag from her brother's hands. Although Harry died a full decade before Sarah was born, it was startling how similar they were.

David tried to hide his embarrassment by quickly ducking his head in the boot and pulling out a black, leather bag to carry.

"Is that your medical bag Dad? I don't know if they'll be okay with you having that, what with the knives and all that…" Amelia said, knitting her eyebrows together.

"I'm old, not a convict, Amelia."

"No it's quite alright, so long as he doesn't go around making my services unnecessary." said a woman in lilac scrubs.

"Mrs. Hudson, head nurse. You must be Mr. Watson." she said, extending a hand.

"I'll make sure to stay out of your way Mrs. Hudson." John said, accepting the handshake.

"Well, let's get you settled in your room then, shall we?" she said, holding the heavy wooden front doors open.

Amelia called David and Sarah over. They'd been drawn to one of the apple trees by the entrance and were currently fighting over an apple on a low-hanging branch.

Their shoes clicked on the stone flooring as they walked through the long hallways made somehow cozier by paintings and photos of residents on the walls.

"There's two to each room, so you'll have a roommate." she said, motioning at two beds through an open doorway as they passed.

"Although you're welcome to change roommates anytime you like if you find you don't get on." she added quickly.

_That_ sounded a bit pre-emptive.

"Should I be worried?" he said, taking his medical bag from David as he saw his grandson rooting around in it.

"Erm, well, it's been a bit of trouble finding someone to room with him."

Before John had a chance to inquire further, they arrived at the last room in the hallway, door 221.

"Woo-oo" she called as she knocked on the door frame.

A tall, thin framed man was silhouetted from the light of the window he peered out of. He glanced over his shoulder and harrumphed.

"This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes." she said, crossing the room to pick up some of the books and papers scattered across the floor.

"Professor." he said, stepping out of the light.

He was well dressed, sporting a black suit coat and an expensive looking shirt. He held a violin bow in his hand. His long, spindly hands seemed untouched by age as they wound around it. He tossed it in the air and caught it with a flourish. His hair was a fountain of black, errant curls. John felt a twinge of jealousy, as his own hair had grayed years ago.

"Sorry?" John responded, not quite sure what the man was trying to say.

"It's _Professor _Sherlock Holmes. Last time I recalled, advancing in age doesn't render all university degrees nil, so as far as I'm concerned, _I _am still a professor and _you_ are still a doctor." he tossed the bow aside, apparently not caring where it landed, and extended a hand.

"How did you know—" John began, shaking the man's hand.

" I can smell the scent of prescription strength hand lotion on your hands, I can't see any other patches of dryness on your neck or face so that rules out any medical condition that would require such a strong lotion. You hardly seem like a man of vanity, after all, you're jumper is more than twelve years old and has been sewn in several places, so it's unlikely you use the lotion for anything in that regard. You also have several grease smudges on your trousers from putting your hands on them before the lotion's dried, suggesting you often forget you've put it on. Force of habit then? There are only several careers that heavily mosturized hands are required, and even fewer that instill such vigorous regimens that you keep the habit and do it unconsciously even after several years of retirement. You shake hands firmly, but are careful where you position your fingers, should they be injured. It's a line of work where damage to the digits would be very detrimental. All of this and the fact that you are holding a medical bag made it painfully obvious that you were once a surgeon and GP." he turned on his heels and went back to peering through the window.

He heard Mrs. Hudson mumble, "Show-off." as she picked up the bow from the floor.

"That was—that was _amazing_!" John stuttered, incredulous.

Sherlock whipped his head around and gave a skeptical squint.

John heard Sarah applaud behind him, but she quickly ceased to do so when she realized no one was going to join her.

"Wait, you're _the _Sherlock Holmes?" Amelia gasped.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I know of no others."

"Oh, you've heard of him?" Mrs. Hudson said, as she straightened what was to be John's bed.

"Oh yes. He's famous down at Scotland Yard. 'The Genius Consulting Detective' they call him. You're methods of deduction are the holy scripture of police work."

"Yes, well, glad I could provide _some_ glimmer of light on that dismal institution." he said, positively basking in the praise.

"Shit—it's almost six. I'd better be going Dad." Amelia said, pulling back her sleeve to glance at her watch.

"I'll walk back with you to the car. Be back in a few minutes, Mr. Holmes."

"It's _professor_, but please, call me Sherlock."

They Watson family said their teary goodbyes when they reached the car. Promises of calls, letters, and e-mails that they all knew John had no idea how to open, were exchanged. He eventually peeled his grandkids off and watched the grey Honda roll down the driveway. He watched to sets of hands wave from the back seat.

John decided a nice stroll would clear his mind, so he began to walk down a path that winded behind the building, into the large swath of trees that lay behind it. In the center of the trees was a large, gothic looking fountain. Beside the fountain was an old bench with a plaque of dedication to someone John assumed donated a large sum of money to Baker Street. He slowly sat down, his knee aching in protest, and decided to just clear his thoughts and stare into the fountain for a bit.

He stood up with a start when someone slid onto the bench beside him.

"Christ." he said, putting his hand on his chest in an attempt to calm his rapidly beating heart.

"Ah, an ex-soldier then." Sherlock said, clasping his hands together in front of his chin.

"Yeah, how'd you know this time? Did my shoelaces give me away?" he said with a wince as the pain of such a quick movement caught up with him.

"You were easily startled. This suggests past trauma, but rather than position your legs instinctively to flee, you positioned yourself in a block-like, fighting stance when you stood. You're stance also suggests military training, as does your methodical way of packing and strict posture. You also take great care in moving your left shoulder. You no-doubt attained a war injury there."

"I see… Wait did you say 'the way I pack'? You went through my luggage?"

"Yes. Problem?" he said, looking genuinely confused.

"Well, that's private! I don't like people rummaging around in my things, thank you." John cried, easing himself back onto the bench.

Sherlock scoffed.

"You hardly seem the type to be harboring any 'dark secrets'. Besides, I had to check for any medications that would suggest you had a severe case of dementia or any other serious condition that would endanger your health if said medications were not taken soon."

"Oh, well, thanks I suppose."

John looked around and noticed it was a great deal darker then when he'd first walked here. After a few minutes of silence, Sherlock spoke.

"You said you were going to be back in a few minutes."

"Shit, I-"

"Forgot, yes. I'm assuming that happens often?"

John nodded and ran his hands through his grey hair. He looked over at Sherlock, who sat hunched with his head in his hands. John could see that the roots of Sherlock's hair were graying from his new vantage point.

They sat again in silence until John's stomach let out a loud grumble.

"Alright, I'm going to see about dinner." John said, standing to walk back to Baker Street.

"They serve it whenever you wish." said Sherlock, not looking away from the empty space he was staring into.

"Right then. Coming?"

"No, I'll see you back in our room. I avoid eating whenever possible."

"The food's that bad, eh?" John said with a chuckle.

Sherlock's mouth twitched into a momentary smile and he stood.

"Perhaps I'll join you after all." He said, twining his hands behind his back.

As they walked down the path, crickets began to chirp. Lightning bugs in the distance began to pulse.

"You don't seem like the type to be…well, _here._" John said, motioning his head toward the approaching Baker Street building. "So why are you?"

"Court order." he sniffed.

'What? You? What did you do, if you don't mind my asking?" John said, scanning Sherlock up and down, looking for signs that he was actually a hardened criminal, or at least a public nuisance.

"Not at all, you'll hear it eventually, if not from me, then from the grossly overdramatized gossip that circles around here. I was arrested on multiple occasions for trespassing and theft."

John quirked his eyebrow and Sherlock sighed.

"I broke into a hospital morgue and stole various parts of a cadaver to run chemical experiments on."

John was impressed that a man of Sherlock's age was able to commit such a feat. Admiration-of-sorts soon moved to alarm when he realized the nature of Sherlock's crimes.

"Not to worry, it was purely research for a scientific study on the effects of bleach on flesh decomposition I was planning to release. I'm now being placated by the hospital staff to study bees. They have a half dozen hives behind the greenhouse." he said, realizing John's worries about the sanity of the man he was being forced to room with.

They saw the lights in Baker Street's windows being flicked on one by one and heard the clinking of silverware and dishes as they entered the side door to the dining room.

John had just begun eyeing the salmon that a bald resident in a bathrobe was eating, when the lights were suddenly cut. There were the initial murmurings of panic, but they were all trumped by a hair-raising scream that echoed off of the walls of Baker Street.


End file.
